


Second Chances

by lovehugsandcandy



Category: Ride or Die (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:02:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21880072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovehugsandcandy/pseuds/lovehugsandcandy
Summary: Colt gets the chance to go back in time and fix his mistakes. Can he keep his dad alive and still take down The Brotherhood?
Relationships: Colt Kaneko/Main Character (Ride or Die)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colt never believed in magic but maybe magic believed in him.

His throat was closing, tongue swollen in his mouth. The smoke that hung in the air was so thick he could taste it, bitter and old, the stench of musty books and incense and a storefront that needed to be doused in bleach or steamrolled into dust. He had been sitting here, back straight in a creaky wooden chair, for far too long, exchanging glares with the old bat in front of him.

“I don’t believe in this shit.”

“Then why are you here?” She had a fair point, blinking owlishly at him behind bottle thick glasses. If he was such a skeptic, why _was_ he here? 

“I have nothing to lose.” He tried to will his thoughts away from everything that had been taken, smoke and flame and burning wreckage haunting his dreams until he woke, throat raw and face wet. He tried not to think about everything that vanished, people who scattered, left to pursue dreams amid storied buildings that held no room for him.

“Tell me more.”

“I’m….” Colt didn’t even know the word he meant to say. _Desperate_? It fit but it wouldn’t come out, caught in the deep dark place where his pain hid until it exploded into fists of red. He leaned forward, hoping against hope that she could see into his soul and not find it wanting. “My dad died. Because of me. I spent my entire fucking life trying to get him to respect me, fuck, to get him to…and now-” He had to look away before his throat caught. “Now he’s dead.”

“And you want another chance.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I want another chance.”

The psychic, or psycho as he had taken to calling her in his head, blinked again at him and pushed a tendril of long grey hair behind her ear. “Ok. But how did you end up _here_?”

“Your ad online? It basically followed me around and jumped off the page.” It had been simple text, large red block letters against a black background: _Psychic Cybill Alters Time and Place for the Magic of Second Chances_. He noticed it the first time, and the second, and the third, and by the time its banner flashed over every single search he made, he thought he was losing his mind. Finally, it had been impossible for Colt to ignore, fresh off yet another nightmare of flames and pain, another round of being awoken by his own screams alone in a shitty, cash-only motel while he single-handedly tried to revive his father’s dreams. “I told you, I want another chance.”

Cybill sighed, groaning at the considerable effort needed to raise her ancient bones from the chair, and leaned heavily on her ornate wooden cane, hesitant steps making their way behind the counter. He followed, partly out of some sick curiosity and partly because she looked like she was going to keel over. He sure as hell should go to jail for some of the crimes in his past but he wasn’t about to go down for the involuntary manslaughter of some fraudster of an old lady who brained herself on her cash register. She fumbled around on her shelves until wrinkled fingers closed around a wooden box, barely larger than her palm.

“Here you go.” She slid it across the counter top.

He looked dubiously between her and the box. “What is it?”

“A second chance.” She opened the box, gingerly, and Colt leaned forward, peering inside. “You get one shot, one chance to fix it. Here’s your second chance.”

“Second chances look like shitty, second-rate tea leaves?”

“You don’t sound like you’re in any position to doubt me.”

He blinked. “You look like you could use some second chances yourself, old lady.”

“You have a lot of anger in you, child.”

“I didn’t come here for therapy.” He pushed off the glass counter top. “How do I know this isn’t bullshit?”

“Maybe I want to help you.”

“No one wants to help me.” He tried, and failed, to keep the bitter sting from his voice.

“Maybe I can. Maybe I can send you back so you can fix decisions made.”

“Maybe you can make pigs fly while you’re at it.”

“Enough, child.” The words came rough, still shaky, but her tone suggested that she was used to being obeyed. Colt just glared. “Take it. Boil some water, a cup and a half. Put all of it in a mug, steep it for three minutes exactly, then drink it, leaves and all.”

“How do I know this isn’t going to kill me?”

“You don’t.” She closed the box and slid it towards him. “But isn’t that a chance you are willing to take?”

He thought of the motel, his home base for months while he dodged rival gangs looking to fill the power vacuum his father’s death had caused. He thought of dodging the cops, cognizant every day of the warrant over his head. He thought of _her_ , fully across the goddamn country, leaving him behind like the wisp of exhaust from the tailpipe of her shiny pink import. “How much?”

“What?”

“How much is it?”

“On the house.”

“That seems suspicious.”

“Everything has a cost. But some things are priceless.” She stared at him, through him, and Colt had the feeling that he was being caught in some web he couldn’t even fathom. “Take it.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“To help…to help you.” Her eyes seemed to dim, almost as if she were stepping into a trance or a memory. “Take it.”

He grabbed the box, fingers gliding over the smooth sides, the intricate pattern on the lid. “If this is a joke…”

“Then you can come back here and berate me some more. Now go.”

He took the box, shoving it in his jacket pocket before heading out the door without a second glance. But the entire ride home, he could feel eyes on him, someone, somewhere, watching him. 

It gave him the creeps.

When he got to the hotel, he made sure to lock the deadbolt, even though he knew it couldn’t stop the demons that trailed him. With a sigh, he pulled the box from his pocket. It was old, hinges squeaking as he opened it up to examine the contents. The leaves were dry, a mash of jagged pieces in varying shades of greens and browns. It looked like the fucking herbs shitheads used to sling on the corner when he was a kid, trying to tempt him with little baggies, the limited employment in Gramercy Park meaning the losers would even try to sell their wares to children walking home from school.

He didn’t even take his jacket off before he got everything ready. 

He followed the directions to the letter, choking the foul tea down, every bitter drop, every scratchy leaf of shitty tea, stomach turning as the vile liquid slid down his throat. He waited, toes tapping a nervous beat on the carpet, but he didn’t feel any different. He waited some more but, as the hours crept by and the moon seemed to follow him in the sky, nothing happened except for three hours of infomercials and a drunken fistfight in the hallway, Finally, he gave up. As he laid down in bed, he was disappointed but not shocked. He figured the old lady had played him, giving him snake oil and hope in return for her amusement.

But when he opened his eyes, he realized that he had no idea what he was dealing with.

He blinked. 

He was no longer in his bed in the shitty motel. He looked back in shock, where he was leaning against his bike, which had somehow driven him here and parked itself and put the kickstand down all on its own because last he checked, he was falling asleep. He looked in front of him, at the familiar cars and crowds and idiots who frequented this abandoned lost in West LA which, again, were not the drab walls of the motel where he bided his time.

He blinked again. He didn’t even think there was a sideshow today. Hell, he could have sworn that he had been in bed. 

_Ah. A dream._ At least this was a better start to his dreams than usual. Normally, the nightmares came hard, strong, without warning, leaving him sweating and shaking in bed. It wasn’t every night, though. Other times, he had better dreams, ones that still left him sweating in bed, but for a completely different reason.

And as if called from his subconscious, a familiar face wandered out from the crowd, looking about with stars in her eyes. He smirked. “Hey, sweetheart,” he called out. He may not know what dreamworld this was, but he knew that girl better than he knew his own name; usually, when he dreamed of her, she had a lot less clothes on. Colt would take what he could get.

She froze. “Who are you?”

“Ellie?” He raised his eyebrows in shock. She knew him. Hell, she knew him well, knew every inch of his body, just like he knew hers. He had spent hours mapping her, covering her skin, every curve and angle and bit of her under his hands and and lips and tongue. This is _not_ how his Ellie dreams usually went.

“How’d you know my name?”

“What?!?” He leaned back, falling against his bike, trying to read her face, but she was genuinely confused, walking closer with her eyebrows drawn, as if they had never met. _Urgh_. While not as bad as the nightmares where he could feel the heat of fire burning his face, a dream where Ellie didn’t know who he was would definitely suck.

He rolled up his sleeve to pinch his forearm, wincing when it hurt. 

Wait. 

Wait a _fucking_ minute.

He swallowed, shoving his hands in his jacket pocket to find his phone, fumbling through the lock screen. When he saw the date, he almost dropped it. March 22nd. But….but. It was August when he saw the psychic. This didn’t make sense.

“Excuse me? How’d you know my name?!?” Ellie stopped to glare, hands on her hips, familiar fire in her eyes.

“You have no idea who I am.” The words came slow as he tried to piece together what was happening.

He pinched his arm again, harder, feeling every bit of the dig of nails into his skin. 

_Wait a minute._

_….What the fuck._

If that bullshit crank who made him drink the tea was real…

And if this was the night they met, then…

He looked around and, emerging from the shadows right on time, there he was. “Is this guy bothering you?” Logan strode forward, standing protectively next to Ellie, shooting a glare his way.

“No?” She just looked befuddled. Colt was as well. “We were just…”

His mind raced. He really wanted to needle Logan, to put him in his place for thinking he had any right to police who Ellie was talking to, but he had bigger fish to fry. If this was reality and this really was the night of the sideshow, then… “I have to go.” He ignored them, ignored the confusion on their faces as he walked away, picking up speed until he was sprinting, racing through parked cars, frantically looking for a flash of green that he would recognize anywhere.

It took a lap around the lot, dodging idiots doing donuts and onlookers gawking at the races, until he saw it. The Aylesbury was parked to the side, near the food trucks, the glare of the dance floor strobe lights glinting off the pristine paint job. 

And leaning against the driver’s side door, smoking a cigar and watching the tail end of a race?

Colt’s heels skidded on the pavement as he stopped to stare. _Holy shit_. The psychotic psychic did it. Because, a mere five feet away from him, his dad stood, back tense and restless eyes scanning the crowd, always on guard. He gaped and watched as Pop turned his head, mouth falling open as he laid eyes on his prodigal son.

He was _alive_.

Colt moved before he could think, rushing over to wrap his arms around his father’s shoulders. They weren’t huggers, he could barely remember rare occasions where his dad would embrace him with anything approaching fondness, but the long-denied intimacy seemed appropriate as he clutched his dad’s shoulders.

“Colt?!? What are you doing in LA?”

He could only grin, staring into eyes he thought he would never see again.

He had his second chance.

Now, to make the most of it.


End file.
